


A Skewed Reflection

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Revelations, Riding, Soulless Dean Winchester, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean temporarily has his soul removed by a witch, Sam knows what he feels like and what makes him tick. Too bad that Dean knows exactly the same thing about him</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Skewed Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> Written for smpc

If Sam had been calculating without his soul, Dean was almost but not quite the opposite. If there had ever been an indication needed of how different they were, this would have provided it; and if someone had wanted to know they were brothers, it would have proved it. Dean, without a soul, was one step up from an animal, Sam couldn't help thinking with a shudder. Without a soul, Sam'd been cool, calculating, everything weighed up, nothing to hold him back, no basic empathy or compassion, he'd reverted to type - every action a reaction. Dean on the other hand, for all he'd been a creature of flesh and passion his life, without his soul was a thousand times worse.

It’s one evening, Sam reminds himself, looks at Dean gnawing on his third burger, rare and juicy, dragging fries through the grease on his plate, eyes fixed on Sam and Sam isn't letting him leave here tonight. Not like this. Not when Dean, without a glimpse of emotion, had _snapped the neck_ of the witch who'd done this to him. Not shot him, or stabbed him, but fastened strong hands around the neck and twisted, until bones ground together and broke, and blood dripped down his hands, and Sam had watched, heart in his throat, and fear in his mouth. Any remnants of humanity had departed from Dean's expression, and the look he'd shot at Sam, had spoken only of the animal. There was something there, but not anything that could be called love. Instead there was a fierce animal longing, born of blood and bone, not heart and soul. It scared the shit out of him, and made heat pool sickly in his stomach, his teeth ache sweetly at the thought of what Dean might do to him, of what Sam could let him do like this, the sort of thing neither of them had thought about for years.

Which was why he couldn't let Dean out, had locked them both in, and contemplated handcuffing Dean to the bed until the spell had run its course. It had been a witch with pretensions to necromancy of course. It wasn't just angels and devils who got energy from souls. A good enough witch could do all sorts of things with the contents of a human's chest. He'd bound Dean's soul to a ring, trapped it in a stone, a deep lit shine, and Bobby was working out how to reverse it right now, but he’d promised Sam that it’d be a day at max anyway. But the thought of a Dean in a local bar, horny and hungry and wanting, and without a vague remnant of conscience to hold him back, scared the shit out of Sam. He couldn't let it happen. So, placatory, he'd brought Dean back everything he needed. Burgers, two rolls of quarters so the magic fingers bed he'd tracked down could do its work, two fifths of Johnny Walker and a pie, because soulless or not, Dean was a man of simple tastes. He'd even sucked it up and brought back lube so Dean wouldn't chafe his dick raw masturbating even, and then sat there near the door, so Dean wouldn't make a run for it.

Listening to him fieldstrip their weapons, fingers fast and sure, like he relished having firepower under his fingers, was an exercise in fear that Sam had never quite felt before. It was as though he'd tuned in to every tiny sound, every faint click of moving parts, every rasp and the deep pulls of Dean's breath in his chest. He even breathes differently like this, Sam can't help thinking. Faster, as though he's thinking of something that makes him sweat. What scares Sam the most is the things that haven't changed.

"Not going to say something, Sammy?" Dean asks, and the nickname is sour on his tongue as he flicks it out, neat as a lash, and it stings twice as hard.

Sam remembers. Sam remembers more than he wants to of what it _felt_ like, to be sitting where Dean is sitting. Everything simpler. Everything governed for you, but not by angels or demons or love of family, just by the wants of your own body. Looking at Dean brings it all home in these moments, and he looks back at the TV, flickering dimly on a repeat of Dr Sexy. Dean had put it on, not a hint of awkwardness, given Sam a look that dared him to say anything, flat and cold, and still that darkness fluttering up and out, spilling over into his eyes, a heavy hunger that Sam's never known what to do with. That isn't new.

"Nothing to say," he lies and flicks the channel off. He’s been into the Johnny Walker himself, not as much as Dean, but then his tolerance is lower. He’s not drunk or even dulled, but he’s the tiniest bit off his guard.

He'd say it was the excuse Dean has been waiting for, but Dean hasn't been waiting for anything. Maybe he likes it just where he is, Johnny Walker by his side, that best of brothers, guns in front of him, wall behind him, creature comforts tended to. It kind of sucks to say it, but part of Sam thinks he hasn’t seen his brother look this relaxed in years. It sucks even more to think that he’s glad the part of Dean that still wants stupid shit, is still there, on a more than just superficial level. He’d had moments where he’d thought that a Dean stripped of his reasons to keep going, the tenuous threads of purpose that whipped him onwards, would just sit down and die.

Still, doesn’t mean his heart isn’t in his mouth when Dean stands up and stalks towards him, snatches up the remote and giving him a look that no longer has the fond brother filter over the irritation applied to it, snaps the TV back on. Dr Sexy is back, like he never left, a little the worse for wear over the years, snapping orders at some dark haired nurse. Dean isn’t watching though, his eyes are intent on Sam, surveying him up and down like he’s  doing the one-two-three sweep of some stranger in a bar.

“Nothing to say,” he mimics Sam, draws out the last word like there’s some obscene alternative. “You’re right there. Plenty to do though,” and his smile is almost sweet, dipped in sugar, like a frosted glass of something tall and sweet and cool. And one thing right there that he shares in common with the man Sam once was, is the strength, a grip of iron around Sam’s wrist. It’s not unbreakable, and Dean isn’t even holding on as tight as he might, just enough to let Sam know his intentions.

Part of Sam heaves to life again at the thought, a bit of him that hasn’t stirred in years, embers stirred by the night, an uneasy tremble and flicker of feeling in the bit of his stomach, the bit of him that remembers being eighteen and ground into the dust by Dean, heavy on his back, both of them too old for the games they played, always walking that thin edge of too far until Sam was so damn mixed up and twisted up inside, that Stanford wasn’t just a release from being a soldier on the run, but a way to escape the fact that he couldn’t put a name to the nameless thing that’d kicked up in his chest and fucked him up. He doesn’t know if Dean remembers any of it. It’s not the sort of thing they’d ever bring up between them, and Sam kind of wonders if it was just another incident of the freak flag he’d always let fly, a sexual misadventure to be tucked in between the time he’d played patients and doctors with the girl in the room next door when he was seven, and that one time he blew Brady in college, then threw up afterwards. That one time he’d got hard, face in the red dust, one arm twisted up behind his back and Dean astride his thighs, and lain there, face down, until Dean had chucked a bucket of water on him.

Dean’s looking at him, intent and still, and Jesus it’d be so easy. Only this isn’t Dean, not really. This Dean will pull his jeans down and fuck him over the side of a ratty couch and not bother to jerk him off unless he wants a tighter vice on his dick, and Dean, real Dean will wake up tomorrow with a hangover from hell, either not remembering that he dicked his little brother, or remembering and despising Sam for letting it happen. Sam’s been on the other side of the equation of this without a soul. Fucked women and men, and once or twice been fucked, dozens of hands he never even knew the name of, on a body he’s still working to believe is his own again.

“Off,” he says abruptly, shakes his wrist so Dean knows exactly what he meant. When Dean had put on that tone of voice, bored command, something in Sam that his soul had always held back, had shivered a yes. It doesn’t seem to work vice-versa though, because Dean gives him a sharp tug, kneels on the couch next to him.

“Say it with feeling,” he says, and there’s nothing sweet about his smile now. “C’mon Sammy,” and it sounds like he’s cajoling Sam into a detour for another pointless car-wax, not asking him to put out.

“You don’t want this,” Sam says and even he can tell it’s a weak as shit protestation. He tries again. “I’m not fucking you Dean.”

“Weak, Sam, weak,” Dean says dryly. “It’d be so much more convincing if I couldn’t feel your pulse under my fingers,” and sure enough he has two fingers clamped down firmly on the pulse in his wrist. Sam thinks wildly of that class he’d taken about human tells, the pulse, the most basic lie-detector of all. Then Dean’s there, lips against his ear, hot breath against Sam’s ear, a tickle against his skin that races down his spine and make him squirm. “Want to know what old-me thought?”

Sam isn’t immune to the nature of that qualification but he can’t resist knowing. He doesn’t say anything but he thinks his pulse might be enough answer.

“There was a bit of old-me that was glad when you fucked off to college, Sam. The things he was beginning to think about you were starting to scare the shit out of him, but he doesn’t think about that, not anymore. Except right down deep, so deep you’d have to know Alistair’s tricks to get at it, old-me thinks, that if you have such a predilection for fucking monsters, he has to wonder why you haven’t fucked him yet.”

He’s let go of Sam like he’s confident he’ll get his way, and Sam can’t deny how deep he’s tempted. When Dean kisses him, deep and hot, lips slicking across Sam’s mouth, biting on the swell of flesh he sucks into his mouth, Sam can’t remember why he thought this was a bad idea and maybe some of that’s the whisky in his veins and what he remembers of being soulless himself. Not a whole new person, just stripped right down. Dean wants this, and Sam’s tired of saying no, when he wants it as well. He’s surprised Dean spends this much time kissing, surprised anew by how Dean touches him, firm and possessive, is shaken by the uneasy thought that whatever Dean thinks usually, whatever Dean thinks in general, is tempered by a love that Sam’s always been certain of, whereas he’s still not sure what this one wants. When Dean grinds him hard against the couch though, leg between Sam’s and fucks his mouth with his tongue like they’re teenagers getting off just on being near each other, he stops even thinking about that, sucks the whisky taste off Dean’s tongue, and gets his hand down his pants so fast he thinks he gets rug-burn. Gets the heavy weight of Dean’s dick in his hand, and almost chokes at the thought, smooths his fingers down the length, and Dean’s hips piston into his hand without thought or delay, chasing sensation anyway he can get it, and Sam wants to be sick, wants to apologize and zip Dean back up, and go back to plan a) of handcuffing him to the bed, but he can’t, because he wants it, regardless of whether it makes him the monster in this room rather than the guy without a soul. Dean's got an excuse, Sam's going to spend the rest of his life atoning. But then, what's new about that?

Then Dean’s standing up and his fingers are tangled in Sam’s shirt, hauling him up like he’s a featherweight, and leading him to the bed. Sam goes down easily, pulls Dean on top like a ratty old blanket that he can’t quite do without, and jerks his hips up against Dean’s wet exposed dick, zip torn open as he shoves down his pants and boxers without charm or grace. Sam deals with his own, kicks them off and lies back as Dean goes down on him just like that. Sam’s had better blowjobs, probably given better, but it’s Dean choking round his dick, or at least the part of Dean that Sam can have, and he learns fast, like, soul stripped away, he’s got more brainpower for things like mastering blowjobs. He keeps his lips wet and tight, urges Sam down, sinks down on him like he wants to take every inch in, thwarted only by his lack of skill, sucks Sam, fast and wet and messy, unselfconscious over the picture he makes, head bent down, one hand around the base of Sam’s dick, almost pulling him upwards, like he disapproves of the movements Sam makes on his own. Then those clever fingers, that can reassemble a gun faster than anyone Sam’s ever met, are rolling his balls, tugging at them enough that Sam gasps, at that near edge of pain, sensation centred in his dick, everything else in the room a swimmy bleakness. All he can look at is the way Dean’s face can’t be seen, at the dark line of his brows and the shortness of his hair, and open his thighs for what he’s sure must be coming next.

Dean doesn’t disappoint, jams two spit-slick fingers up his hole, skittering of pain chasing along with the intrusion, a heavy throb of it thrumming through his nerves and Sam doesn’t know whether to squirm away or push back onto them in the hopes that it’ll get better. He holds off on a decision for a second, and in that time, Dean jabs them deeper and hollows his cheeks until Sam’s arching off the bed, desperate for more, fucking into Dean’s mouth to try and get it. It still doesn’t feel great, a deep burn, but it matches Dean’s suction, feels like it goes hand in hand with the relentless almost impossible way Dean’s taking him, swallowing and possessing him at the same time.

He’s almost on the edge from it, noises in the room that he barely realizes are him at first - a relentless ah-ah that he doesn’t recognize from any other encounter. He’s never sounded like that before and something uncomfortably close to sober reasoning, points out he’s never fucked his brother before either. Right before he’s about to come in Dean’s mouth though, Dean pulls back, lips spit-slicked and red, obscene in their own right like that, and Sam pulls a leg up ready, only to have Dean give him a look that questions his sanity, and crawl on top of him until Sam’s dick rubs against the curve of Dean’s ass, smacks against his crack, sticky and wet from Dean’s mouth and Sam’s pre-come, like the sort of porn that Sam pretends not to watch - raw and rough and down to business in seconds. In the covers of the bed is the lube that Sam had brought back from his store-trip. The look on his face must be confused because Dean laughs.

“I’m doing you a favor,” he says, Dean at his slyest and slickest, sleazy purveyor of a thousand cons and scams, a hero disguised as a hustler who’ll fuck you over for a pocket full of cash. “Tomorrow morning or maybe late noon, I’m gonna wake up,” and Sam wonders at the slipping, at the melding of old-Dean and present-Dean and future-Dean, like, really they’re all one and the same thing, and his cock twitches at the thought, “and trust me when I say, that much as he wants this, and oh he does, it’ll be better if you had your dick up my ass and not the other way round.” It’s like some surge of the rational has fought its way up in this-Dean’s head, but then it’s gone again. “Ain’t saying I’m not a switch hitter Sammy, but go with the flow on this one.”

Sam’s fingers can barely hold the lube, spill it all over his hands as Dean spreads his thighs wide and ready on either side of Sam, strong and steady, and Dean’s so tight that Sam doesn’t even dare ask the obvious question, just slicks him up and slides a finger in,  grinds his palm up against Dean’s exposed skin, deep as he can get, before he risks another, watches the sweat bead on Dean’s upper lip at the burn and stretch, and Dean opens easier than Sam expected, a fact that surprises him until he remembers the fineness of the motor control he’d had without a soul, the awareness of his body from head to toe. Imagines Dean coaxing himself open like this, holding himself open so Sam can get inside him, and he almost comes just like that, although he doesn’t think Dean would be impressed with that. From the looks of him, motor control or not, Dean’s close to losing it himself, hectic color in his cheeks, low moans as he sways down closer, swallows Sam’s fingers right up, every inch the hedonist, taking it all in in the moment, and whether it’s coincidence or not, Sam’s palm twinges, reorients him in the moment like it always does.

It’s pretty obvious when Dean decides he’s done with prep because with no ado at all, he’s gripping Sam’s dick and without the benefit of a condom, fucking himself down, and if they get through this still speaking to each other, Sam’s gonna bitch Dean out over that, no matter how much blood they’ve shared. Still, in this moment, he doesn’t begrudge it. Not when Dean’s face is fucking wrecked the way it is, and he’s riding Sam, fast and hard, wet slap of skin against skin, leaning down close enough that their breath practically mingles, and his hands are iron bars against Sam’s skin, going to bruise in a way that nothing else they’ve done tonight will, except where it can't be seen. When Sam surges upward, Dean presses him back down inexorably, and gets back to fucking himself on Sam, deep and hard, and Sam doesn’t believe Dean’s ever done this before, all kinds of little clues that occur even to his drink and tiredness dazed mind, but it’s so good, he can’t even think about stopping, punches his hips upward as best as he can, as Dean slides down to meet them, dick between them hard and red, and Sam wants him, wants it all, as sharply as he ever did when he was eighteen and every time since then that he’s squashed back into the darkest corners of his mind.

Dean gets his own hand around his dick though, brings himself off in a way that’s almost painfully economical, fast and hard, catching up with Sam with each movement of his hips. Sam still gets there first though, and that’s Dean all over, selfishly generous, getting Sam off when all Sam wants to do is feel Dean come on his dick. Deprived of that though, it’s a close second best, as he gets in as close to Dean as he can and comes inside him, hard and wet and awesome enough that it rattles through his bones. Dean rides it out and comes like that, Sam inside him still, rapidly softening but still holding Dean open as he gets himself off.

Afterwards, he’s too tired to go for a washcloth, too tired to do anything other than scrub them both ineffectually with a tissue, while he longingly thinks of sleep. Dean can kind of tell what he’s thinking though because he grins. “Sleep all you want,” he says. “I’m full, I’ve just had sex, I’ve got a roll of quarters left for that bed over there.”

Sam doesn’t even think of believing him for a second. Lack of a soul negated most promises or assurances. Dean doesn’t protest being handcuffed though, just looks at Sam with the same dark eyes as though he can’t quite believe it, as though he’s being unfairly maligned, still playing, still lying with only a look. He doesn’t fight them though, which is a relief to Sam because Dean would win. Job done, he gives into urges even he knows are stupid, and sleeps like that, alongside his chained up brother.

When he wakes, the sun is low and Dean’s gone. He spends a moment cursing himself for a fool, before the door opens and Dean returns with coffee and a hitch in his step, an unreadable expression on his face that screams that his soul is back, presumably due to Bobby working like a Trojan throughout the night. Neither of them speak for long moments, Sam too paralysed with relief that Dean hasn’t just left, Dean inscrutable, before he kicks the door shut and dumps the coffee near Sam.

“We’re gonna take a drive, Sammy,” he says, and then pauses. “And if soulless me tells you to top a second time, tell him to fuck off.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always appreciated.


End file.
